


DIES IRAE.

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Character Study, One Shot, Past Abuse, Religious Content, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 19:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11515974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: In the wise words of Machiavelli, it's better to be feared than loved. The left hand, ugly and red, serves as a symbol of empowerment rather than a hindrance.





	DIES IRAE.

**Author's Note:**

> Normally, I don't find myself posting fics in rapid succession, but I've been itching to write and I'm incredibly inspired. I, myself, am not a religious person in the slightest. However, I do love working with religious imagery and symbolism. Hence, this little oneshot was born.

A messianic figure lays on a prison issued mattress.

Many would argue that the infamous Joan Ferguson is a monster, a Devil in disguise. Others, revere her as a misunderstood pariah. She views herself as the inevitable: a practicality that provides structure to the women in this concrete hell.

In her cell, Igor Stravinsky plays. In particular, one can hear the fervor of _Danse Infernale du roi Kastchei_. This is what a fall from grace sounds like. This is what a proper uprising sounds like.

Disregarding the teal uniform, Ferguson stands before the mirror. Ignores the mirror and occupies her time with the stainless steel faucet below the looking glass. In solitude, she removes the brace that obscures her wounded left hand. With great finesse, she unravels the bandage that hides the metaphorical filth. The gauze thus follows, revealing pink skin, reminiscent of a mewling infant.

The Red Right Hand left its mark upon her.

She turns the faucet on, allowing for the hot water to come rushing out in a torrent. She hasn't the time for the cold. A damnable heat consumes her, ebbs into flesh and bone. With a hint of soap, she scrubs ferociously. No amount of overenthusiastic washing can erase the foul stain that remains.

Casting out all impurities, she dries her hands upon a standard, white towel. There's a care that combats the self-inflicted violence that occurred just a few moments before. The disfigurement acts as a temporary setback.

Now, Joan lays down, but not to sleep.

It's time to ruminate.

To reflect.

To dictate where the next chess piece (a pawn, a knight) ventures next.

On her back, her spine grows accustomed to the worn mattress, the springs beginning to dig into her muscles. One leg out, her other knee crooks so that the ball of her feet rests atop the mass of sheets.

Inherent wickedness finds itself now projected on the outside. Without her brace, she examines (scrutinizes) her scarred hand. One by one, she flexes a finger at a time. Like any well-oiled cog in a machine, they continue to function.

Above, the brick ceiling offers no promise of Heaven.

She makes a fist the way Ivan Ferguson taught her to.

Held to the light, she examines her knuckles, pronounced and aggravated from the assault. The damned on the left hand find themselves cursed. She finds herself gifted with a new perspective.

Thoughts of Hell are banished from her mind; she's already lived through it: the loss of Jianna, her father, the fire, the doctor, the ganging. For every occasion, she's risen above – reborn as the illustrous phoenix, forged from the flames and reborn in the ashes.

Faith's naught but a cheap sermon to soothe the guilty soul; she has no need for it.

A brand mars her hand; it's a curse that cannot be lifted. Despite the odds, Joan remains powerful. Joan strides to assume her meticulous control.

Blubbering sheep fail to remember that there is a sort of wisdom imbued on the left side. The hand embodies power: God reaching out as judge, jury, and executioner upon Dies Irae, the Day of Wrath.

Dark eyes glint, razor sharp. A half-smirk twists her lips. Her scalded, red index finger wags in a full circle. With a grand flourish, a cunning maestro orchestrates the audience's demise. Joan Ferguson sets her plan in motion.

It's easy, she deduces, to rule through fear.

 


End file.
